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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25100515">Thee'll Not On Theer Nelly Be Divvy, Simon Snow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoolofaBookWyrm/pseuds/FoolofaBookWyrm'>FoolofaBookWyrm</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baz and Simon go to group therapy, Cockney accents, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Simon Snow Loves Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon Snow is Gay for Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Loves Simon Snow, therapy is important, they say i love you</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:22:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25100515</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoolofaBookWyrm/pseuds/FoolofaBookWyrm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>After we returned from America, we had a lot to work out. Simon tried to break us up, to save me from himself. He couldn’t understand that I’m just as much of a mess as he is. I’ve always been a mess, and loathe as I am to admit it, I had my own problems I needed to work out before we could truly be happy together. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>I begged him to go back to therapy, if not for himself then to do it for Bunce and me. I couldn’t live with myself any longer seeing him hurting like he was. Without being able to help or knowing what to do. Hurting himself in an effort to try and save me. </i></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><i>He said he’d only go back if I went too. We were both drowning in our losses, so I agreed. I would do anything to help him, anything to give us a fighting chance. </i><br/>~*~*~*~*<br/>Or, the one where Simon has customers talk to him using Cockney slang and he couldn't understand what they were asking for, causing him to have an emotional meltdown. Baz helps Simon navigate his negative feelings and overcome his spiral.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch &amp; Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Thee'll Not On Theer Nelly Be Divvy, Simon Snow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to my beta readers <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire">Sharing_a_room_with_an_open_fire</a> for always being my #1 cheerleader and moral support, and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbynormalj/pseuds/abbynormalj">HufflePunky</a> for giving me great feedback to help shape this fic into something I'm actually happy with. 💜💜💜</p><p>Please note: I do <i>not</i> know any Cockney slang, and in fact, didn't even realize this was a dialect until I was doing British accent research and realized in London Cockney is a very regional dialect and uses a rhyming slang. (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s11qjmvTdJ8">This</a> is the video that I watched while learning about the Cockney accent. That discovery led me down a rabbit hole which resulted in me crying to my SHP Discord server about poor Simon having a meltdown the first time he encountered it on the streets. And thus, this fic was born! So I apologize if the slang I used is incorrect, I used a Cockney slang phrase translator so I can only hope that the phrases actually make sense. </p><p>The title <i>Thee'll Not On Theer Nelly Be Divvy, Simon Snow</i> means "You'll never be stupid, Simon Snow". (I really really hope, again, I apologize if my translation generator is way off!)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I can hear him before I see him, and I already know that I’m not going to be getting any more studying done for the evening. It’s nearly an hour earlier than I had expected him to be home from work. I close up the psychology textbook I’d been reviewing, setting it and my notes aside in preparation for the emotional storm that is sure to come in with Simon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The good days usually outweigh the bad now. That had been a struggle at first, for him to learn to accept his lack of magic and share his frustrations with those closest to him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To accept that he is still Simon Snow— he is still courageous, giving, and the hero that he’s always been. The exceedingly good-looking hero that I fell in love with when we were still just kids, not for the magic he could barely control but for the heart that he’s always had. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It has been a lot of work to get here, to a place where Simon is finally comfortable enough in his own skin to go out in public for more than just a few quick errands. Going back to therapy has been a step in the right direction— for both of us. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After we returned from America, we had a lot to work out. Simon tried to break us up, to save me from himself. He couldn’t understand that I’m just as much of a mess as he is. I’ve always been a mess, and loathe as I am to admit it, I had my own problems I needed to work out before we could truly be happy together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I begged him to go back to therapy, if not for himself then to do it for Bunce and me. I couldn’t live with myself any longer seeing him hurting like he was. Without being able to help or knowing what to do. Hurting himself in an effort to try and save me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He said he’d only go back if I went too. We were both drowning in our losses, so I agreed. I would do anything to help him, anything to give us a fighting chance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Things have steadily been getting better since we started therapy. Bunce and I have returned to our classes at Uni while Simon has started working at the coffee shop around the corner from our flat. With help from his therapist, Simon has been able to accept that he may not have magic any longer, but he can allow himself to accept help from his friends. Magic can still be a part of his life, even if he can no longer do it himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Every morning he allows me to spell his wings away. It’s the only magic he will let me do to him directly, but it’s a step. We’re getting there. Together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His footfalls are heavy coming down the hall to our flat. I can already hear him huffing in aggravation and he hasn’t even made it through the front door yet. (Vampire hearing has its advantages. At least I can be somewhat prepared for what’s about to be hurled my way.) </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His key rattles in the lock before the door swings open, and there’s Snow— eyes red-rimmed, hair frazzled, and skin flushed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If we were still at Watford and he had his magic, the whole flat would be filled with the smell of his magic— Smokey. Sticky. Like green wood in a campfire. He doesn’t have magic, but I can still feel his mood radiating from him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The door slams behind him as he kicks off his trainers. In a few quick steps across the room, he throws himself onto the other end of the sofa, hugging his knees up to his chest as he sits there. His head rests in the space between his chest and legs, effectively hiding from me and the rest of the world. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Simon, love,” I try to do this more now, use his first name when he’s had a rough day. I’ve always known he prefers it when I call him Simon, but I still reserve using it for moments like this. When he needs me to be soft, to know that I’m here for him. Really here, and that I’m not about to leave or antagonize him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t say anything, so I continue talking, “would you like a cup of tea?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Our therapist has said that small everyday acts to show that we’re there for each other are more important than large declarations of love. (There are tragically few magickal therapists, so we both see the same therapist. Separately usually, but sometimes she’ll ask us to do a group session) Simple things, like offering to make a cup of tea, or calling him by his first name. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grunts an affirmation, so I busy myself in the kitchen making him a cup of tea. Of course, I use a bit of magic to hurry the process along. He may need a few quiet moments to process what he’s feeling before he opens up to me, but I don’t want to give him too long to be alone. Even if he’s not ready to talk yet, I need him to know that I’m there when he is ready. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once the tea is brewed I set his mug on the end table beside him. He huffs a breath before lifting his head and hugging the mug with his hands. He takes a long sip, clearly getting lost in his thoughts. His legs are still curled up to his chest while he sits there, one arm still hugging his knees close to him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I sit back on the opposite end of the sofa. I want so desperately to hold him, to smooth the anxiety from his brow, to kiss him until all of his troubles fade. But doing so has always ended in disaster. I know he’ll come to me when he’s ready, I just have to wait it out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to tell me what’s troubling you?” I don’t know if he’s ready, truly. But I need him to know I’m here and I’m willing to listen. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to listen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes a couple more minutes of silence before he finally opens up. Both physically and verbally. He releases his hold on his legs, letting them finally relax to the floor. He’s still not looking directly at me, but at least he’s no longer closed up, like he’s trying to hide in plain sight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I fucked up,” he finally confesses, almost a whisper. “I had a couple of customers come in today to order coffee. But I—” he pauses, almost unsure how to finish his sentence. He searches for the words, staring at his mug. “I didn’t know what they were saying. It was English, but… not?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He glances at me for just a moment before returning his attention to his tea. “I could swear they asked for a Bill Roffie, black.” He has tears building up in the corners of his eyes. He sets his mug down before burying his face in his hands, like he is ashamed. But at least he hasn’t resumed his fetal position on the sofa. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I asked them twice to repeat themselves, but I still didn’t know!” He’s talking so fast now, I almost can’t keep up, “so I just made a black tea. I understood the black part well enough. And everyone orders tea!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He finally glances up at me, completely broken. I want to take him into my arms. I feel so helpless in moments like this— every nerve in my body is screaming at me to protect Simon from everything in the world that causes him pain. But I need to wait for him to come to me. That is what he needs, what he’s told me during one of our group therapy sessions. He doesn’t like having things done </span>
  <em>
    <span>to </span>
  </em>
  <span>him without his permission. He needs to be the one to initiate, to take control. He says things are easier when he’s the one doing it. </span>
  </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But it was wrong, and they complained to the manager. And he made it right, but I was moved from the register to the back.” He sets his mug down on the table and slowly lays his body across the sofa. His head is in my lap, so I brush the curls from his face.</span>
 </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can feel my whole body finally relax now that I have him here, finally allowing me to comfort him. I want to cry with the overwhelming relief, but a lifetime of practice keeping my emotions in check keeps me from falling apart.  </span>
  </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And then I spilled a whole pot of coffee in the back, and burned the scones I was baking because I forgot to set the timer.” He has started to cry again, it’s silent but his shoulders are heaving in a way I recognize inherently now. This is Simon going through a full meltdown, which should break my heart. It does, but it also gives me relief. He trusts me enough now to let me see this, to allow himself to be this vulnerable with me. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Clarke sent me home early because I was making such a mess of everything,” he heaves the last sentence out with a sigh. I give him another moment to settle himself now that he’s gotten everything out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Simon, love, will you please sit up and look at me?” He does so, somewhat reluctantly. I can’t tell if this is his melancholy or the fact that he still has the need to be contrary with me whenever he can. He can be an absolute nightmare, and I love him for it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I loosely take his hand— I want him to be able to pull away if he feels he needs the escape. I hope he won’t, but this is important for him. To feel in control. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even though he’s looking at me, it’s as if he’s still miles away. Seeing him like this, looking so forlorn, I know I would do and give anything for him to remember how important he is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Love, how long have you been actually out and about in London proper?” He looks at me like I’ve lost the plot. He knows I know how long he’s been working in London, after nearly a year of hiding from everybody and everything in his flat with Bunce before I agreed to move in with them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shrugs, staring down at our clasped hands. Most conversations with Simon are shrugs and grunts, but less so now than before America. However, times like this he still tends to revert back to his old tendencies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve only been working with the public for about three months. Before that, you were always home, or at school when you attended classes.” I rub the back of his knuckles with my thumb, hoping to soothe him, “prior to that, you were always either at Watford or up North during the summers. You never spend any real amount of time on the streets of London, and you’ve probably never had anybody speak Cockney slang directly to you. In shops, most people avoid slang if they want what they’re actually asking for.” </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head. “Love, those customers you had were just using Cockney slang. Probably to take the piss, and nothing more. It’s mostly used by the middle-class, and usually only in casual conversation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Baz,” he lets out a long breath, “whatever the reason, it was awful. It was like being back at Watford all over again when I couldn’t understand Greek conjugations or spit out a proper spell in Magic Words.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come here, please,” I whisper. I won’t try to force touches on him, but I can still make requests. I’ve told him he never needs to ask to touch me. That he should always assume the answer is yes— whatever he’s willing to give me of himself, I’ll gladly take it. However, sometimes he can still use the reminder that I want this. Truthfully, I crave it, but I would never tell him that. I’m too afraid I’ll scare him with how much I want, even now. We’ve made a lot of progress, but I don’t know if we’re there yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I breathe a sigh of relief when he climbs into my lap, legs straddling mine, and rests his forehead against mine. I close my eyes, trying to absorb every inch of contact he allows me. My hands drift to his waist, my thumbs drawing small soothing circles into his sides. Now that he’s come to me, I feel more confident in allowing myself to touch him. Even now, this can be a bold assumption, but I think he’ll welcome the touch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I felt so stupid and useless,” he is so quiet I almost didn’t catch what he said. I would have missed it if it wasn’t for my vampire hearing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thee'll not on theer nelly be divvy, Simon Snow.” I quirk an eyebrow at him, hoping he’ll hear how silly Cockney slang can sound. “You’ll never be stupid or useless. You’ll never be either of those things,” I stay quiet too, but am sure to say it firmly enough I know he’ll hear it. He needs to hear it. He needs to believe it. One day, I hope he really will. “You’re the most brilliant tactician I’ve ever met. Not to mention stupidly brave. We never would have made it out of Vegas and Shepard would most certainly still be cursed if it wasn’t for you. And you did that without magic.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulls his head back to really look at me. This is too important for me to be afraid of saying too much so I continue on, “Not to mention seven years of missions for the Mage, solving all of those riddles and mysteries for him.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I had Penny to help with all of that,” he argues sullenly. “I wouldn’t have accomplished anything if I didn’t have her with me all those years.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know it wasn’t all Bunce. In fact,” I trail a hand up his back to rub small circles gently into his back, “she’s told me that you figured out most of them on your own before you ran off to throw yourself into whatever trouble you found.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His posture slackens, the fight finally going out of him as he continues listening. “Seven years of that, Simon. Nobody stupid or useless would have been able to accomplish the things you have, with or without magic.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes soften. I’m not sure if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> gets it, but for the moment I think he might believe me. He takes my face with both of his hands. </span>
 </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, for reminding me.” He’s using the tools our therapist has suggested. Acknowledging our own feelings, and believing the other person when they call out our intrusive thoughts. It’s not always easy, but it’s been working a little at a time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ana baħibbak” I tell him. It’s how I’ve been telling him </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you </span>
  </em>
  <span>since our therapist told us that we needed to start being more direct with our feelings. The first time I said it to him, I told him what it meant. What it means to me. It’s what my mother used to say to me. It was the first time I had said the words aloud since I was five years old, and it felt so good to share them with him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gives me a crooked half-smile. He must be feeling at least a little more put together to give me that sliver. “I love you too,” he breathes as his lips meet mine. The kiss starts soft, his lips lightly brushing mine at first. I’m tentative to give too much to the kiss, afraid I’ll take more than he’s willing to give. I will always let him lead, until the day he tells me he wants more. </span>
 </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His tongue swipes across my lower lip, and I let him deepen the kiss. Tongues wet and hot sliding in tandem. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kissing Simon Snow is always good, especially when he’s doing the thing with his jaw that he’s learned I love so much. I hum into his mouth in appreciation, and I find myself wanting to live in this moment forever. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He kisses the same way he fights— no thought, all action. His mouth is always moving in a way that leaves me wanting to simultaneously fight for dominance and surrender myself to him completely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Breathlessly, Simon pulls back. He’s grinning at me now, a full grin that makes my undead heart skip a beat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ana baħibbak” I tell him again, my heart so full I can’t help but smile back. </span>
  <span></span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” he stands, holding a hand out to me. I take it (of course I do), letting him lead me to the kitchen. “We need to get started on dinner if we’re going to be eating in tonight. I’ve got a nice roast beef that I need to get started, and you’re going to help.”</span>
  </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I roll my eyes, but let him direct me anyway. Maybe it’ll be a better evening than I had originally anticipated after all. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <strong>Come say hello to me on <a href="http://foolofabookwyrm.tumblr.com/">Tumblr!</a> I love new friends!</strong>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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